Oct. 7, 2013
Waiting. That's all we've been doing for months. Waiting for news about my son's potential sentence. Well, the news has finally arrived.
All we've wanted to know for 7 months is what time will he actually have to serve for his crime? This first offender with a history of mental illness. This man-child who has been nothing but cooperative from the start, confessing to everything and asking for help with his substance abuse and bipolar disorder. This boy. My boy. What kind of time will he be away from society unable to make positive contributions of his talents to the world outside cement walls?
I yearn for the feeling I had yesterday of not knowing. That hope of hearing, "Time Served" or something equally as positive. That feeling of hope that maybe they'll see the boy I know and realize that he doesn't belong there.
But instead, when his attorney calls today to tell me what is likely on the table at this point, I hear "3 years." There were more legal details discussed explaining that they have to go before the judge who ultimately hands down the final sentence, but all I remember were those words: 3 years. He entered prison almost 21 years old. He will be nearly 24 before he is out. A third of his twenties will be gone.
I'm trying to wrap my head around this news, trying so hard to find the good here. It could have been much worse and I realize that. His attorney did a wonderful job and got some other charges dropped or brought down to lesser charges. My brain sees that. It's my heart that is so very broken.
So the wait is just about over and a new wait will begin.